Hallelujah
by crowscrow
Summary: Second installment to the story 'The Storm that Is'. Trevor recounts the last moments he and his best friend share before Ludendorff. Slash.


Story Title: Hallelujah  
Universe: Canon  
Word Count: 13,382  
Genre: Romance/Drama  
Characters: Michael Townley (Michael De Santa), Trevor Philips, Ronald Jakowski, Bradley Snider  
Pairings: Michael Townley/Trevor Philips, Trevor Philips/Michael Townley  
Chapter rating: M  
Summary: Trevor recounts the last moments he and his best friend share before Ludendorff.  
Warnings: Language, adult themes, sexual content, slash  
Disclaimer: Characters, quotes, themes, etc © Rockstar and © other people, places, etc. No financial gain is made.

Author's note: This is the second installment to the story 'The Storm that Is'. Enjoy!

Hallelujah

Loss and abandonment were two concepts well known to Trevor Philips. Loss—the day his mother passed. Abandonment—the day his father left him in a shopping mall. Loss—the day his wings were taken from him. Abandonment—the day his dearest friend put a stripper before their partnership. Loss—the day aforementioned friend was shot.

That day… that day was by far one of the _worst_ days in his entire existence.

Harking back, he could recall the great pain that had risen inside, cutting through him with knife-like precision. It was as if he'd been shot alongside his brother, a twin bullet to match the one in Michael Townley's chest. Good God, the memory was horrible. Seeing Michael reduced to a limp body in the snow, a ring of pure red, bleeding out, the knowledge that there was _nothing_ he could do, nothing to stop the onslaught of police swarming them, the sirens, the wailing, his own hoarse, rage-filled voice as he shot at the looming hoard again and again and again—it ravaged him for years.

The pain was bad. It was so bad he'd done everything in his power to escape it, but the meth and the alcohol and the dust couldn't last forever, and God only knew it didn't help his nightmares.

He'd attempted to kill himself twice, once with a bottle of aspirin followed by a fifth of vodka, the likes of which had him strapped to a stretcher in the backend of an ambulance after a concerned motel attendant found him naked on his room's dirty floor. When coming to, he'd sworn at the EMT's, told them to suck his fat cock and fought viciously to remove the tube running the length of his throat, but in the end they pumped him bare and he was discharged from the hospital two days later with a clean bill of health and nowhere to go. That time was, admittedly, embarrassing on his part.

The second time he'd been much bolder. He'd done it in the comfort of his new home in Sandy Shores, his recent fling sprawled on his bed in the other room. Piercing the first layers of flesh had been easy enough, but he couldn't gather the guts to drive the hunting knife home. When his courage left him, thoughts of his mother ensued, telling him that he was worthless, cowardly, that he was and always would be a useless little sack-of-shit of a boy. But he couldn't do it. Even with her berating him, he just couldn't.

Then, Michael's face was before him, eyes vibrant and lively, and he smiled, knowing that face could be real and not a figment of his drug induced hallucinations if he would only hug the razor edge of that gleaming knife close. Looking up, he'd seen through the soiled ceiling of his trailer to the stars, to where Michael was, and thrust the serrated blade in.

It was surprising at first, strange and foreign, just as Michael had been those few times they'd laid together. Penetration suited him, he thought, and laughed. There were screams from the other end of the trailer, but he kept that knife buried in the space between his ribs, determined to keep it there. A woman—his latest, cheap fuck—came to him and tried to pry his hands away, to pull the knife from his side, but he screeched at her and warned her not to interfere, telling her he was going to see an old friend and there was nothing she could do to stop him. She didn't listen.

With her on the phone dialing for help, he plunged the knife in deeper. That time he could feel it. It had hurt. He'd cried out for Michael, an incomprehensible howl to the heavens above, and fell to the floor, his own blood staining his teeth and pooling on the yellowed vinyl.

That particular injury had kept him in the hospital for at least six weeks, not to mention the two he had to spend in the suicide ward shuffling about in bunny slippers and a ragged robe. They _talked_ there. They wanted him to open up about his _issues_, but he gave them diddly-squat. To _hell_ with therapy; it never worked for his mother and it would never work for him.

He did, however, decide it was time to accept the fact that Michael was gone.

And so, after he was granted his freedom, he went to the nearest tattoo parlor and got inked.

The cross on his arm, Michael's name inscribed in the twisting ribbon, the word 'brother' beneath in flowing script, the dates… they gave the sadness and hurt a tangible surface. Michael was not coming back.

Michael Townley was dead. And he, Trevor Philips, the other half, would have to keep living.

So he did.

Maintaining a busy lifestyle, doing the things that gave him meaning, his guns and drugs and illegal flying, they all made the pain ease, and eventually he felt strong enough to start the business he'd had in his head since he was a kid: Trevor Philips Enterprises. TP Industries. Trevor Philips Corporation. TPI Conglomerate. Hell yes. He liked the sound of that. And _God_, it felt good to be back in the game, fresh and full of new hope for his dreams.

As time passed, the grieving eased. Ronald moved next door.

But there was always something in the background to remind him of the days where Michael Townley still inhabited the earth. A football game. A crappy, black and white Vinewood movie. A bottle of scotch.

Snow.

No, not in Sandy fuckin' Shores. God had better things to do then sprinkle white over the barren deserts of Blaine County. It was elsewhere—on the tube, in magazines, commercials, or on billboards. Random places. He could remember how it used to fall in Canada when he was a boy, attempting to catch it with his tongue like the normal children. Sometimes it fell in airy, nearly invisible drifts to the ground, though often in fat, damp heaps that stuck to your hair.

Maybe, with the loss he'd endured, he looked for it in everything. That's why he saw it _everywhere_. That's why it was so soft and delicate in his mind, beautiful and stark and cold. It was enough to shirk his memories…

Quite enough.

#

Another year. Newness was universal, a feeling of hope and excitement buried deep within the pit of humanity's stomach.

Mounted on the dingy wall of a no-where bar in the tiny town of Danes, North Yankton was a television switched to the New Year's Eve festival out of Vancouver. The bar was small, grimy, and surprisingly empty for the occasion. A harsh man sat at the counter, his coat tattered, his black jeans faded beyond compare, his chestnut hair receding and disheveled. He parted his cracked lips to ingest the whole of his beer in one long, lazy gulp, then glanced up to see the lights and energy of the jubilant crowds of Vancouver. Anger gripped him at the sight of their joy.

Another fucking job, another fucking score, and another fucking _miserable_ month to spend ducking low and alone.

It was New Year's _fucking_ Eve and he—Trevor M. Philips—was still that same, sad, drunken, smelly, creepy guy that no one cared about, that everyone assumed was a good-for-nothing piece of shit. The entire _fucking_ evening he would spend swaying on that bar stool, unaccompanied save for the periodic beer in his palm. Depending upon the good graces of the bartender he might be permitted his request of 'just one more', but eventually he would be thrown out. He knew that.

God, he was so _pathetic_.

As he drowned his senses, painfully aware of his growing loneliness, the door opened behind him, sending a gust of winter air tumbling through, but he neither noticed nor acknowledged it. He signaled to the bartender for another, to which the man begrudgingly allowed. When the drink was placed in front of him he rocked forward, knocking it just enough to spill a little on his already stained shirt. He had goose-bumps by the time the blond-haired man sat down next to him.

"Yo," the man said. Trevor didn't need to look to know who it was.

Bradley Snider… was horrible. He was just horrible. He was a shitty friend, a sub-par gangster, a loud asshole, and a waste of human life. He ran dog fights and sold dope, and Trevor—to his utter repugnance—once caught him raping a girl no older than fifteen. He couldn't read, he couldn't do math, and he thought homophones were actual phones used by gay men. But _boy_ did the guy know how to shoot a gun. And he was merciless when it came to a job.

It had been a year since his induction into their group, their unlawful triumvirate, and though he was a previous friend, Trevor felt an immense loathing towards him. It started with Michael.

Michael Townley—the founding father—had insisted they refrain from adding another member to the crew. Lester Crest was already a huge addition to the operation, so why expand? Besides, they didn't need any more of the scores being cut. They were doing just fine on their own.

Contrary to this belief, Trevor Philips—aka 'the first lady' (or so he had secretly dubbed himself)—thought the idea completely necessary. Michael was getting too lax, especially since the start of his liaison with the stripper.

Their fighting was brutal, but in the end Trevor had surprisingly gotten his way; thus Bradley Snider was admitted to the inner sanctum. Michael was less than enthused. Yet, Trevor saw the two men's bond grow.

And it pissed him right the fuck off.

He held his contempt for Brad for nearly all of that year before finally realizing the man was no more a threat to his relationship with Michael than a mouse was to a snake. It had been a silly thought, the assumption that another could come between the special bond he and Michael shared. Theirs was an intimate connection. It had no room for others. It was strong despite the recent lull, and Brad, with a curious and unexpected knack for light-footedness, never treaded on that sacred ground. As a result, Trevor began to respect him again, asshole though he was, and from there his and Brad's own friendship resumed its peace.

Just in time, too. The stripper whore became the stripper whore _wife_, and like a wedge, she drove herself between he and Michael's partnership, popping out two wailing kids, stealing Michael's time and attention and making him even _softer_.

It wasn't fucking _fair_.

Trevor turned and looked at Brad, his irritation apparent. "Get… fuck outta' here…" he said drunkenly, his anger less at Brad and more for Amanda.

Brad didn't respond but held out his hand for the bartender to see. Soon a beer was placed in front of him.

"Eh!" Trevor snapped. "Don' go way. 'Nother one. _Gimme_."

"You're done," the bartender replied.

Trevor was about to curse the man but Brad put a hand on his shoulder.

"Don' worry about it," he said. "You're pretty drunk, pal. How 'bout I get us some nachos?"

"_Fuck_ your nachos. An' git your fuckin' hand off my shouler."

"Fine," Brad said and removed his hand.

When the bartender turned, Brad slipped Trevor his beer. Trevor snatched it greedily and gulped it down. After wiping his mouth he stared at Brad, his eyes shaded with dark semi-circles, his chin covered in stubble. "What are you doin' here, anyway?" he asked. He smiled wide and tsked. "Spose to be lyin' looow, you knooow."

"Had to make sure you were okay," Brad said. For such an obnoxious man his tone was unusually muted. He paused, hesitating. "Job was…"

Trevor shot forward, growling. "_What_? Job was _what_, Bradley?"

"Job was a bit sloppy. _You_ were sloppy."

Trevor swore. "Is that why ya… came 'ere? To tell me how… how shiddy I am?"

"No."

"Well, you'd be right. I _am_. But git—git another beer fur me anyway."

Brad whistled for the bartender. No sooner had the bottle been delivered and it was gone, Trevor sucking on the rim, guzzling it as if he were dehydrated. Brad tapped his nails on the scratched counter.

"You kinda' seem distracted. Jobs need our focus. You weren't very fo—"

Trevor whipped forward again, his face so close to Brad's they were almost touching noses. He could tell his breath stank by the way Brad's expression contorted, but like most things concerning his hygiene, he didn't care.

"_Fuck off_, Bradley Snider," he said with an intensity so severe it was startling.

After a moment, Brad shook his head. "Fuck _you_, T. Why you gotta' say things like that? You and me, we see eye to eye on stuff. We're like family. And here you are tellin' me to fuck off. Christ."

Trevor inwardly cringed. He and Bradley Snider were _not_ family. They were _nothing_ alike. But Brad continued, digging deeper than expected.

"Shit, we're like brothers."

"You're not my brother," Trevor said low.

"We both had fucked up childhoods. We practically had the same mom."

At the mentioning of his beloved mother, Trevor couldn't help raising his voice. "Your mom was a _whore_."

Brad raised a brow as if to say 'and yours wasn't?'

Trevor seethed. "Go snort some glass, you fuckin' hyena. You mangy, fuckin' jackal. I _hate_ you."

Brad stared. "Whatever," he said, sullen. "Just care 'bout you is all."

For a moment, Trevor didn't speak. A feeling of intense shame came over him and coaxed out his next words.

"'m sorry, B. You're right… I… I love you. It's me… It's me that's the jackal. It's _me_ I hate." He put a hand on Brad's shoulder, then placed it on his leg, rubbing for sincerity, but it lingered far longer than any reasonable person would think appropriate. His thumb pressed small circles into Brad's thigh, and his breath hitched as the sudden, sharp pang of his loneliness stabbed at his heart.

Brad's brows creased and he gripped the top of Trevor's hand, gently moving it to the counter. "You're very drunk," was all he managed to say.

"I wish I was _high_," Trevor croaked, nearly breaking into a sob. The crash was always hard. A smile then gripped his rugged features and he began to giggle. "I will be soooon enough, Bradley-boy! Just gotta' find me a source. Should stop _buying_ the shit and start makin' it."

"You're thin enough."

"So I'll be a fuckin' model."

"Where are you stayin'?"

"Shut up."

Brad took back the fresh bottle from Trevor's grasp. "Tell me."

"Shut. Up."

"Is it that shithole Park Inn fifteen minutes from here?"

"Who wants to know?"

Brad shrugged. "I was… just wondering."

"_Bullshit_."

"Alright, so I wanted to check up on you."

"_Liar_."

Brad sighed. "Whatever. I mean, if you _know_ than why do you have to ask? But whatever, man. Whatever"

Yeah. Yeah, it didn't seem like 'whatever'.

As much as Brad annoyed him, Trevor had to admit the man was perceptive in his own way. Brad _knew_. Trevor _knew_ Brad knew. Brad also knew that Trevor knew he knew; it was clear in the way he watched Trevor watching Michael.

Trevor silently cursed himself. That damn _job_.

Quincy Town Bank in east North Yankton had been easy enough to pinch, but sweet mother-of-God if Trevor couldn't help the way Michael had looked as they were making their escape. Normally he was quite capable of concentrating on the task at hand, at turning the attraction off, especially when it came to dodging bullets and spraying them back, but the snow… the snow had dappled Michael's raven hair, swirling around his pale face beneath a wash of cream-colored moonlight. The cold, the dark, and the contrasting glow, the single breath puffing from Michael's lips and the way the night made his skin appear like white marble… he'd looked like a Roman god.

In retrospect, Trevor could see himself staring open mouthed, the bullets becoming a slow blur around them as his nerve went to mush. That instant, a magnetic hold. It had seized them in their tracks as the snow fluttered like cotton to the icy earth. A shot whizzed by his head, nicking his ear, but Michael blew the guy's brains straight from his skull with one shotgun blast, spraying gore and pulp across the white and speckling Trevor's face. He could remember trembling, whispering '_Mikey_' as Michael yelled at him to get his ass in gear. No way in hell Brad hadn't seen _that_.

And _now_ Brad was Michael's little spy, snaking his way into bars, keeping tabs on their poor, troubled T.

It connoted weakness.

At the thought, Trevor hocked a wad of phlegm onto the floor and reached for another beer, but it was empty. Brad eyed him.

"Fuck you, M…" Trevor muttered.

"Huh?" Brad said.

Trevor ignored him. "Hey… hey, B?" he asked. The beer had suddenly hit him hard. He swayed, but managed to keep on his stool.

Brad gave him a questioning look. "Yeah?"

"Do you…" Trevor paused to rub his face. "Do you think I… be a good lover? You know, would you ever… pursue a—a romanic conneshon with a guy like me? Ever?"

There was a brief silence before Brad responded. "I'm not into dudes, man. You know that."

Trevor laughed. "No, I didn't… I mean like, if you were a chick, would you… you know… _be_ with me and not—not juss _fuck _me."

Brad didn't respond. If Trevor had been sober he might have realized Brad was fidgeting, periodically typing at the cell phone in his palm, but it went unnoticed. Trevor continued, hiccoughing all the while.

"I—I don' do that. I know I… I ain't gay. Well, not really. Some… sometimes I do stuff with… you know, with guys, but… it's only light stuff… head… but it's not _all_ the time, B, so I'm not _really_ gay…"

The ringer from Brad's phone sounded. Trevor's rambling suddenly stopped. A light seemed to go off in his head.

"Hey… how—how did you know I was 'ere, B?"

Brad looked up from his phone.

Trevor snarled. "_Lester_. That wheezy, D and D playing, four-eyed _fuck_."

"Mike wanted to know where you were," Brad said.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, _fuck you_." Trevor stumbled as he pushed away from the bar counter.

"T, come on. Don't go drive, man. I'll take you."

Trevor whirled around, wobbling. "Oooh, you'll _take me_ will you? Such a gooood friend, takin' me an' all that. Yeah, you _take me_.Just like _Michael_."

Brad's puzzled expression never left his face, even as Trevor stumbled through the bar door. The raucous sound of an old, rickety pickup could be heard sputtering outside, intertwining with the countdown on the bar's television screen. Like a bomb going off, the instant that countdown reached zero, Trevor was gone from view, swallowed by the darkness.

* * *

The parking lot of the one-story motel was unexpectedly crowded. Trevor's pickup screeched to a crooked halt in one of the vacant spots, door thudding into the neighboring car as he flung himself from the driver's seat and staggered towards his room. Loitering on the corner of the motel was a young man in his late twenties. Despite the cold, the man had no shirt, but wore a biker jacket with multiple necklaces of varied lengths: a cross, a coin pendant, a leather choker. His pants were skin tight, with slim suspenders dangled in loops from the seams to his knees. Circling his wrists were studded leather cuffs and chains. A cigarette drooped from his slack lips and his chestnut hair was a coiffed mop. All in all, the man was relatively handsome, if not a little beat up.

If Trevor had to guess, the man liked crystal probably as much as he did. He swayed outside his door, biting his lip, contemplating. The man glanced at him, realizing he was being observed, and smiled. Trevor stared. When the younger man gave him a slow wink he decided to break the silence.

"You kiss?" he asked, his voice guttural even to his own ears.

The young man smirked. "Costs extra."

"You holding?"

"Baby, I got you."

Trevor hesitated, uncharacteristically measuring his likeliness of profit from such a situation, even with the implication of drugs. In truth, dildos and plugs and beads were becoming tiresome, and it was getting harder and harder to imagine each item as an extension of Michael and not just some plastic sex toy. Plus, he longed for the feeling of another's hands on him, no matter the person, no matter the age or gender, just their hands roaming, heating his frozen heart. That and the drugs.

He jerked his head towards the opened door.

"Get inside."

Within the motel room was a plain bed, a crappy television set atop a long bureau, a tiny bathroom, a dim lamp, and a nightstand with a palm-sized bible that Trevor doubted anyone but himself had read in years. The young man followed Trevor inside, gripping his arms through the tough fabric, shivering. Trevor threw him a quilt. When the man's teeth had stopped chattering he dove into business.

"It's thirty for a quarter gram. Fifty for a blow, forty to blow me, hundred for a rim, but it has to be with a dam. Two hundred to bottom, three hundred to top, four hundred raw. Kissing and all that is forty bucks extra with whatever you want. I don't do anything with shit or CBT. I'll do it to you, though—the CBT, I mean."

"Well, aren't _you_ the lil' business man," Trevor said. He reached into his pocket and fished for his wallet, taking three grand in hundreds out for the man to see. Smacking them down on the nightstand, he smiled. "You treat me well an' I'll do the same."

The younger man's eyes widened. "I could be persuaded on the shit."

Trevor ignored the statement and held out his hand. "Just gimme' all you got. Come on, come on, come on, hand it over."

The man pulled a bag of small, crystalline rocks from the inner seam of his jacket, an area stealthily hidden. Trevor swiped it up and put some in the pipe resting beside the stack of hundreds. After removing his shirt, he ran his hand through his mullet and lit the bottom of the bowl. "You're name is Michael," he said as he exhaled a plume of smoke. "You respond to Michael, but ya' don't speak. No moaning, no noises. Don't look at me. Put your mouth on me. And I want you ta'… I want ya' to be rough with me. I wanna' _feel_ it. Starting now."

The younger man was practiced. At that moment he came forward and shoved Trevor onto the bed. Trevor felt his pants being torn from his legs, but it wasn't enough. The alcohol was gone. In its stead the crystal claimed his mind. He growled, clenching the other man's bicep, baring his canines.

"Harder, you fuck," he said and sunk his teeth into the man's earlobe.

"Ow!"

"What did I _fuckin'_ say about talking?"

"Jesus, that hurt."

"A pierced ear will be nothin' in comparison to what I'll do if you don't shut the hell up and _fuck me_!"

The man went silent, attempting to grope Trevor at the force and speed in which was demanded of him, but with wasted effort. The more he failed, the more aggressive Trevor became. Soon a beep resounded in the room and Trevor's head perked up from the bed pillows. He pushed the false and rather disappointing Michael back with far more force than was previously demonstrated on himself and snatched his pants from the floor, glancing at the name on the incoming text. It read 'B'. He pressed ignore and plopped back onto the bed, placing the phone on the nightstand.

"Where were we, cupcake?"

The two continued, Trevor finally relenting as he accepted the fact that this man was a sorry substitute for Michael, deciding that _he_ would do the fucking instead, but the man relaxed into his touch and made him feel cozy enough not to care who was about to do who. And if it weren't for the fact that the younger man smelled just as unpleasant as he, Trevor might—just _might_—have felt a teensy bit insecure, but both of them had obvious body odor, the man because he had no home in which to shower, being a creature of the night, and Trevor simply because he didn't give a rat's hairy ass.

That being noted, it was nice to sense someone in every way he could. His lips were finally getting some use besides to express his disdain for the general public, and the tips of his fingers were becoming alive again after continuously caressing the severe metal of guns for so long. Now he was high and flying under another's sweet touch (and the influence of his favorite drug) but the damn phone went off for a second time. He ignored it.

It beeped again.

Growling, he seized the phone and threw it at the wall. It struck the plaster and bounced onto the floor in two pieces. The man on top of him looked up but was yanked down once more to his lips.

For a while there was nothing but peace, a stillness Trevor often associated with boredom or sobriety, but it was actually nice. He liked it, the tranquility in himself and his surroundings, of not being too drunk or too high, of not hurting anyone or causing destruction. He moaned, hugging the younger man, wanting it all—the emotion, the peace, the excitement, the pulse—to never end.

And in that state, he thought of Michael.

No other person had given him such warmth, such splendid purpose and contentment, but he was tired of being cold and sad, of holding out for someone who took and took and never gave back. He wanted connection so badly. He felt so utterly alone. He didn't care about the younger man or Michael. He just wanted that connection. He just wanted love.

The man above him pushed at his legs and kissed him. He sighed.

That was when the door opened.

"Hey, T, hope you don't mind me…"

Every movement became a sluggish version of itself. Trevor craned his neck to see over the man on top of him, his brows raised in surprise and confusion. Michael was holding a paper bag to his hip, the green of his eyes dramatic as he viewed the spectacle laid before him. The young man glanced over his shoulder to see what was going on, but Trevor grabbed his face and kissed him, gripping him tight.

A second passed, maybe two, and the result Trevor had expected came in a violent surge. The younger man was yanked off him as if plucked by a giant troll.

"THE FUCK?!" Michael screamed.

The hard sound of knuckle connecting with flesh reached Trevor's ears and his cheeks dimpled. Michael beat the young prostitute, tugging the man back through the doorway when he tried to escape.

Too soon though, Michael became winded—being heavier in weight than in the past few years—and the younger man was able to limp his way outside, swearing and leaving a trail of blood that had seeped from his broken nose. Michael heaved a large breath and screamed after the man.

"Yeah, you're fuckin' A right you better hobble off, you piece of filth FUCK!" He slammed the door.

While Michael had been busy pummeling the younger man, Trevor had put a hand on his erection to play with himself, watching with languorous anticipation as his dearest friend lost all semblance of control. It made him so freakin' _hot_. He loved the unnecessary violence, loved that it had been between his coveted Michael and a strange, innocent guy. He loved that he had caused it, loved what it implied. He loved it all so much that when Michael was done and the young man had escaped, he pumped his aching hard on vigorously, intent to burst.

"Oh, Michael," he said through his teeth. "Oh, I _love_ it when you get territorial. God, it's been too long… Fuck me. Fuck me like you did at your wedding!" He spread his legs, his ass raised comically in the air, but Michael wasn't amused.

"Who the _fuck_ was that?!" Michael said.

Trevor sprang up onto all fours on the mattress, his movements catlike. "Piece of ass, Mikey, nothin' more. If you're sore about it, you can spank me. Come on. Spank me. I've been a _very_ naughty boy."

"Fuck you!" Michael screamed.

"YES! YES, FUCK ME!" Trevor replied in kind. He leapt off the bed to the floor, falling to his knees in front of his startled running buddy. "Better yet, fuck my mouth. Choke me on your cock, Mikey, I wanna' black out when you come."

The force of Michael's punch snapped Trevor's head to the side. He lingered, his neck bowed, his cheek stinging. Slowly, he turned. Michael sneered.

"You. Fucking. _Slut_."

Trevor's breath hitched. "Oh, Mikey…" he said, whispering, his eyes alight with excitement. "I ain't ever heard _that_ before. Psycho, asshole—sure. But _slut_? Mmm… say it again. Say it again and I'll show you just how _slutty_ I can be."

Michael didn't reply. Instead, he swore loudly and struck the closest wall, leaving in it a large hole. Reclaiming his bloodied fist, he stormed out the opened door. Trevor watched him go, unexpectedly shocked by this abrupt departure, and yet unfazed by the previous blow to his face. He scrambled to his feet, yanking on his pants to follow Michael's footprints into the cold. When he reached the back of the building he stopped.

"_Michael_," he said. His breath came out in a small puff and he was shivering.

Michael had come to a halt near a small landscaper's shack next to a rickety wheelbarrow blanketed in snow. His back was turned, but somehow Trevor could see the pained expression on his face.

"Michael," he said again, calmer now, but very cold.

"Fuck you, T," Michael replied.

Trevor glared, his eyes colder than the icicles suspended from the motel's gutters. "Stop it. Stop being an _asshole_."

"You're the one who's the asshole here."

"_I_ didn't beat the _piss_ outta' some innocent, worn out, crack-dealing whore. _I_ didn't go insane and deck my best friend in the face, then expect him not to chase me down when I ran out on 'em."

Michael began to pace, shaking his head. "What the _fuck_ were you doin', huh? You—you don't even know the guy. What if he had fuckin' AIDS or somethin', huh? What would you do then? _Huh_?!"

"Well, I guess I'd fuckin' die."

"Don't be ridiculous! That shit you just pulled was dang—"

"Oh, Michael, will you please do everyone a favor and _shut the hell up_."

Michael looked as if he wanted to continue, but for once stayed silent. Trevor could feel his teeth chattering in his skull as he spoke.

"Don't sit there and scold me like I'm a fuckin' child. Don't pretend you don't care. We _both_ know that's utter horseshit." His smile was cracked as his breath came out in gray puffs against the lighting from the motel. "_You were jealous_," he hissed.

Michael gave him a fierce look. "No. No, that is _not_—"

"_Don't_. Don't you _dare_ pretend seein' that guy on top of me didn't make your blood boil. Don't act like the thought of him _fucking _me doesn't drive you mad, Michael, because it does, it _so_ _does_."

Michael looked calm despite Trevor's growing tone. "No. That's not true."

"_Goddamnit, Michael_!" Trevor said in a roar. "It _is_ true and you _know it_!"

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Michael hunched into the warm collar of his fluffy, winter jacket like a turtle. Atop his head was a snug hat, concealing his hair. He looked peaceful. Snow began to fall and Trevor felt his feet going numb.

"What do ya' want from me, T, huh?"

"You unimaginable _asshole_."

"I gave part of myself to you, and this is how you act towards me?"

"_Fuck you_, Michael, you hideous, self-aggrandizing _fuck_."

"T, I got a family. I got two kids. I got Amanda. I _love_ Amanda—"

"YEAH, AND I WAS HERE FIRST!"

Michael looked away. Tears had begun to trail down Trevor's cheeks, freezing on his face, and yet for some reason he couldn't feel it. He couldn't feel anything.

Michael sighed. "Look, Trevor… I'm sorry for what happened between us." He shrugged his shoulders sadly, but the sternness in his voice prevailed. "I fucked up, okay? I hurt you. I know that. But… I don't want you doin' that shit. Not like I saw. Not ever. I won't allow it. You understand me?"

Trevor's eyes lit up in rage. "You have no _claim_ over me, Michael."

Disbelief made Michael's mouth drop. He blinked. Trevor snarled at him, the cold nothing in the face of his anger. His lips were numbing as he tried to speak over the trembling that possessed him.

"You have n-no say when or where or _how_ I get my rocks off, _chubby_. So d-don't you _dare_ try an' tell me who I can or can't f-f-fuck. You got no _right_." He softened and his voice lowered. "Not unless… you want to."

The night couldn't have been more still. Michael bit at his lip, his shame evident. Trevor glared.

"Spare me your p-pity, _Michael_."

Michael seemed to stare, his eyes drifting to Trevor's exposed chest. "We should go inside now."

"No," Trevor replied. He crossed his arms, his body shaking uncontrollably as he peered down at the white earth. "The _l-least_ you could do for me, M-Michael, is to hold me and l-lie to me."

A full minute. It was agonizing. Then, like a ray of sun penetrating the darkness, gradual warmth encircled his trembling shoulders in the form of Michael's winter coat. He grabbed at the lapels and closed it over his chest, his shivers letting up. Michael rubbed at his sides.

"Jesus, Trev," he said. "Let's get you inside. I brought some hot cocoa—"

"_No_." Trevor jerked away, planting his icy feet in the snow. Michael—now clad in jeans and a long sleeve thermal—attempted to guide him back to the motel, but he went rigid, his legs like stone. "No. I said I don't wanna' go back."

Michael growled in exasperation. "Well, what the fuck you want me to do, huh? Pick you up and carry you?"

"Princess-style," Trevor replied. "But not inside."

"Then _where_?"

"Get creative."

Obvious sarcasm could be heard under Michael's breath as he lifted Trevor into his arms. Trevor said nothing but was secretly approving of his friend's strength; or maybe he was too thin. Whichever it might have been, he was taken into Michael's arms in exactly the way he wanted—princess-style. He let himself snuggle the skin of Michael's neck for a moment, feeling sheltered and cared for before deciding to let the sentiment go and be a pain in the ass.

"Quit fuckin' squirming around, you shit-head," Michael said.

"I'm not your fuckin' woman, chub-tits," Trevor replied.

It seemed that Michael had had enough, and so in response to the insult trudged over to the landscaping shed and dropped Trevor unceremoniously onto the tray of the old, snow-covered wheelbarrow. Trevor felt his black cargos pulled up to his knees, bunching as both his legs were thrown over Michael's shoulder.

"Here," Michael said. He took off his hat and placed it behind Trevor's head. Bending back, he cupped his hands around Trevor's toes, his breath hot as he exhaled on them through his mouth. "Your feet are freezing, man," he said. Nevertheless, he unzipped his pants and spat into his palm. Trevor witnessed the action and smiled, catching Michael's eyes with his own.

"Don't care 'bout my feet, Mikey," he said. "My heart is colder."

Michael hesitated mid-stroke, his brows creasing as he hovered in place, but he blinked and shifted between Trevor's thighs before the strange, metaphysical connection between them could deepen.

And then there was the pain.

The introduction of anything foreign, whether it was a dildo, a plug, or a real dick, was always unpleasant from the start, but unlike his first time he actually expected the discomfort and was prepared. It hurt for a few minutes. Michael apologized in a low, panting breath, using his spit, attempting to confine the sensation, but it wasn't until his rhythm steadied that Trevor could ease and absorb the pleasure from his thrusts.

"There were others… weren't there," Michael said close to his ear.

Trevor, enjoying the increased warmth and Michael's sweet insufflations on his skin, was momentarily caught off guard by the statement. _Others_?

"… Huh?" he said after gaining his bearings.

"Others. I can tell. You feel… looser…"

Trevor chuckled. "Jealous Michael."

Tucking his face into the crook of Trevor's shoulder, Michael refrained from answering. The heat radiating from his skin was welcoming amid the cold, and Trevor felt his pulse quicken by the contrast in temperatures. He embraced Michael, hugging the man as close as he could, their bodies sharing one another's heat, their hips secure against the other's, fitted like a puzzle. He arched upward and murmured soft into Michael's ear.

"Unless you count silicone, you're the only one that's ever been there, Mikey."

Michel looked at him then.

"Surprised?" Trevor asked.

The sounds of crickets and Michael's quiet gasping were Trevor's only response. He savored it, relishing the delicate feel of Michael's palm gingerly holding his cheek, the other stroking him, the cold nipping at his extremities like ravenous minnows. Soon his body stiffened.

"Mikey… oh God, I never want this to end…"

"You know it has to," Michael replied.

"Goddamnit, you selfish _ass_hole, you owe me more than just ten measly minutes…"

Michael buried his head into Trevor's shoulder. "I'm trying…"

In response, Trevor gripped Michael's hair, the black tufts spiking between his straining fingers. "I don't want it to end yet. Not yet… not yet, no… please, no, sugar… no, oh, fuck, no, _fuck_, no, please, Michael, please, no, Michael, Michael, _Michael_!"

With that lone name shaping his reddened lips, Trevor reached the culmination of their union, the volume of his voice uncontrollable as he spent himself—with the help of Michael's gentle touch—onto his own stomach. 'I love you's' spilled in succession off his tongue, pouring like a spring until they were damned by Michael's mouth after his own release. They lingered like that, slowly kissing, Trevor's arms around Michael's neck, Michael's arms slipped behind Trevor's back against the warmth of his coat, both periodically separating to respire, puffing little clouds of hot breath against each other's opened mouths.

"… That was good," Michael said, his eyes half lidded. He was smiling.

Trevor couldn't stand it. He shoved Michael back and leapt to his feet, marching around the corner to the front of the motel for his room without even bothering to fully lift his pants. His feet were freezing; his belly smeared with now cold ejaculate, and all he could think about was getting to the shower. Not for the warmth or the comfort. Not to heat his frost-bitten extremities. But to wash. To rinse Michael away. To rid himself of their closeness.

He paid the door no mind as he bolted—pants sagging—through to the bathroom, spinning the knobs on the shower when he was within arm's reach. He didn't wait. The water was even colder than the air. He rubbed at his stomach and chest, flinging the traces of watered-down semen from his fingers as if they were muck, his expression contorting into one of disgust. Nothing could relieve him of the awful void. His fingers soon found his face and he realized he was crying. He hid then, his palms covering what they could of his wounded self, and a strangled sob found its way out from his throat. Like a flood, the rest he couldn't stop from pouring forth.

It seemed an eternity he stood there weeping into his own hands as the water rained down upon his head, soaking his balding, scraggly mullet and letting his tears remain unseen among the tiny rivulets coating his skin. The sound of the door shutting could be heard, but in that moment his cries were the world.

"Christ, T…" came the soft sound of Michael's voice.

Trevor clamped his eyes shut and willed the other man away, but Michael reached his hand past the shower curtain to adjust the water, then stepped into the tub. His hand went to Trevor's shoulder, but Trevor jerked as if the touch burned him.

"Don't," he said.

He wanted to lash out but didn't have the strength. The water was becoming warm, and despite himself his resentment for Michael was beginning to fade, his muscles going limp. Michael touched his shoulders and started to message. This certainly didn't help. His head fell back and his knees went weak, and without warning Michael spun him around and tugged his hair, pulling him into a rough kiss. It made him so angry.

He pulled back enough to say in a seething tone, "You're such a _shithead_, Michael."

Michael looked shaken. "Do you… want me to leave?"

"What do _you_ think?"

"I think you want me again."

"And _I_ think you don't give _two shits_ about me!"

Michael poised his hands in the air. "Alright, calm the fuck down. We're not gonna' have a fight in a motel shower." He sighed. "I thought…" He shook his head. "I thought you wanted it. I thought you wanted _me_."

"I fuckin' DO!" Trevor shouted in return. His body slumped and his head dropped. The tears started to well in his eyes again, but he blinked them away, unwilling to let them fall. Michael gave him a concerned look, but he ignored it, saying, "I just wanna' be loved, Mikey, you know?"

Michael didn't speak.

Trevor went on, his passion unmistakable. "I want it _all, _Michael! The roses, the poems, the sappy love songs! I wanna' make love in the morning and cuddling in the afternoon! I want fuckin' romantic walks in the park and dinner at fancy restaurants, candlelight and music, violins, a French accordion, spaghetti and meatballs and a fuckin' fat Italian guy singing by the table about stars in our eyes!"

"Is that… is that Lady and the Tramp?"

"I want my heart to beat a _thousand_ times per second and my head to swim with the thought of how _desperately_ in love I am. I want _tenderness_. I want _desire_. And you—" He pointed a wet, accusatory finger at Michael, "—what the _fuck_ do you want, Michael, huh? _What the fuck do you want_?!"

Michael stood still. Finally, he grabbed Trevor hard by the wrist and opened his mouth. "I want you."

Trevor spat venom. "_No_. It's _my_ turn."

"_Your_ turn. I don't give a damn if it is. I want you again, T."

"Tough tits, _Townley_," Trevor said. "You're not the boss of me. Your only boss on _jobs_, you fat fuckin' asshole. "

"Is that so?"

Trevor's face was firm. He tore his wrist away and leaned in. "It's _your_ ball, baby boy."

Though he was prepared for the repercussions of his impertinence, it in fact managed to surprise Trevor when Michael left the shower and retreated to the motel's main room. He was quick to follow. There, Michael seemed sad. He stared absently as he stood naked, suddenly shy and unsure. Perhaps he thought it wasn't noticeable, but Trevor could see the uncertainty in his beautiful, green eyes, in the way he tilted his head. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the look was gone. Determination took its place.

"You're so stubborn…" he said. He played with his wedding band, spinning it on his finger.

Trevor's eyes were drawn to the action. Michael looked to him with new purpose. "I don't want this thing… me and you… to come between what's important. I… I don't know how to feel about it and I don't know how to make it better. But I need to know you'll forgive me in the end."

It was instantaneous how swiftly Trevor moved. Michael flinched as if preparing to be struck, but it was Trevor who held his chin and gripped his hand, raising it up to lap at the palm with dark, piercing eyes. A strange empathy could be felt between them, and Trevor's heart flared as he saw the reaction his tongue had induced. Michael's breath was heavy, his cheeks flushed, his arousal clear. Trevor took the opportunity and drew one of Michael's fingers into his mouth—a very specific finger—sucking gently until the wide, white gold, wedding band that had tormented him since day one of its acceptance slithered off its owner with the removal of his mouth. He tongued it, tasting the salt and metal, then held it between his teeth and spat it onto the floor. It rolled under the bed. Michael stared.

The moment of empathy passed, and for Trevor an extreme hunger came roaring from every suppressed bit of love he had every felt in his life. He grabbed Michael by the back of the head and smashed their lips together, taking his stunned best friend and partner's mouth by force. Michael twisted, writhed almost, but Trevor's lips were unyielding, laying claim to the pale terrain of Michael's neck, his chest, his shoulders and biceps, trailing back up again to his mouth and declaring war on his tongue.

It was not long before the contents of the surface nearest Michael were swept to the floor. The lamp made a thud as it hit the stained carpet, but it didn't break. The light shown as brightly as ever, casting shadows at different angles, the silhouettes slanting. Trevor pinned Michael to the wooden bureau and aimed for the jugular, but Michael was able to obstruct his path.

"Hey, so… You really think I've gotten, well, _fat_?" Michael asked, now abashed.

Trevor paused, a trace of shame stirring his eccentric conscience, but he smiled, on the verge of malicious, and replied, "You ain't no model, sugar, but you're beautiful ta' me."

Michael blushed, seemingly satisfied with the answer, though maybe a tad insulted, and looked as if to speak, but the words that might have come out were never uttered as Trevor grabbed the backs of his knees to fold him inward.

After a while there was no time. Minutes became inconsequential. Trevor let his mind wander and his body drift, at ease as he inhaled a deep, selfish breath of Michael's scent into his lungs. It made him rigid. He felt like a stud dog in thrall, the smell of a bitch in heat close by. Butterflies flitted in his stomach; his head was swimming. He wanted to buckle down and fuck like crazy, to spill his seed in Michael the way a rutting buck did a doe, fast and wild and fuckin' _furious_. But he didn't. He forced himself to enjoy every second of the pre-game, knowing that all of it—the foreplay, the sex, the orgasm, the awkward aftermath—would soon vanish, like the fine, thread-like smoke that spiraled off a dead candle. In this and only this did he _ever_ take his time. Outside of Michael, the concept was foreign to him. So he continued the slow employment of his tongue, his face happily buried amid the two rounded curves of Michael's posterior, memorizing each unique combination of taste and aroma in his head with the utmost meticulousness—his own personal Mikey museum. He did this with relative calm, until suddenly a new sensation was added to the mix. Sound.

Michael made breathtaking sounds.

It wasn't clear how they made the short step from the bureau to the full sized bed, but Trevor didn't question it. He simply let what was about to happen run its course, yet he was finding it harder to keep the pace he'd originally started with.

"T," Michael said, the letter falling from his lips as if it were liquid sugar. At least, that was how Trevor _wished_ it to sound. It came out more like a jagged snap. "_Trevor_," Michael said again. "Trevor, _please_, just get _on_ with it."

Trevor nodded and reluctantly progressed to the next phase. One finger, then two. Three was pushing it, as was shown in Michael's pained expression, making Trevor's face crumple in guilt. If there was ever a part of their intimacy he disliked, it was this, but he did his best to cast aside his apprehensions despite the groans they caused. After all, it was for Michael's own good. Always for Michael, the man he loved.

_The man he loved. _

He shook, momentarily petrified.

The thought scared the _shit_ out of him.

Could he, the sad, smelly, angry, loud, murdering, raw, psychotic, desperate, frightened, reckless, lewd, passionate piece-of-shit that he was… could he actually love? Could he _afford_ to love? And what had _love_ ever done for _him_? Love did not like him. Love was selfish and out for its own gain. It only hurt. It hurt so much, so badly, yet it was forever coming back, and he was like the moon chasing the sun, always alone and in the dark.

An instance and he saw himself old and alone, those he had selflessly loved taking from him everything, and he left with nothing inside. He would love and love and love and they would strip his heart and soul from his very self like tattered cloth from a body. Michael would leave him. Michael would rape his heart. And he, Trevor Philips, psycho, friend, animal, lover, he would die… with nothing.

Well, _fuck that_.

He would _not_ grow soft as Michael had. He would _not_ fall prey to the domestic life, to age or exhaustion or even _fear_. He would _not_ love. He would _not_ be tamed. And he would never take his foot off the pedal. _Ever_.

In that moment, before their union, their paths had become clear, and Trevor knew the time they had left was coming to an end. He knew he had to make it go away, to rid himself of the vice that Michael had become, and start afresh with a crew of his own. But Michael lay in front of him with the sounds and the scents and the feelings he burned for, and he couldn't bring himself to get up and leave. He had to have Michael this _one last time_. After that he could be fucked to Michael's content, fucked every which way Michael wanted. It wouldn't matter; he knew it was all going to end anyway.

And suddenly he was staring down upon the dark haired angel he idolized, his body a twitching, throbbing heap. There was nothing more to do. Michael was slicked and ready for him and he could barely hold himself at bay. He eased his hips forward and practically sang in bliss.

"Oh, Mikey…" he said.

A moan slipped from Michael's gaped mouth and Trevor's heart began to thunder behind his rib cage. He swooned, instantly in heaven. They were inseparable, indistinguishable, their bodies in tandem yet working against one another, unstoppable and immovable incarnate and _oh-so_ mouth-wateringly sweet. It didn't take long for the sweat from Trevor's forehead to trickle down his face and neck, to run through his stubble, along his shoulders and chest, sinking to where it periodically brushed against Michael's pale skin by way of his stomach and thighs. Michael made unbelievable noises, grunts and groans, each a different variation in pitch and intensity, but, to Trevor's dismay, he wasn't hard.

It looked to Trevor as if his steadfast stallion would never max out. He, on the other hand, was waning. He pulled back. "Flip over," he managed to say.

Michael didn't move; instead, he lazed there as if he had lost all sense of himself, but Trevor shoved him onto his chest and propped him up as if he were a ragdoll. The color in his jade eyes was muted, numb. It would have been disconcerting, but Trevor's newly found thrusts visibly shook the cloud. Before long Michael was crying out, seemingly brought back to life.

"_Shhh_," Trevor said. He nuzzled at Michael's neck and purred. "… feels better when you relax, sugar…"

The room quieted, and eventually Michael's poorly stifled cries became long, deep groans of pleasure. The end was inevitable. Trevor knew. But he wouldn't allow himself to finish before Michael had. His palm snaked around Michael's waist, aiming low as he felt his control slipping, dwindling. Michael gasped and grew hard. In an attempt to buy himself more time, Trevor licked his lips and whimpered, lost in a moment of overwhelming absolution, "_Jesus_, I might never… oh God, I can't stand it! _God_, Michael, I love you! I love you, I love you, I love you—oh my love, I love you! Come for me while I'm inside you—come for me _now_!"

Michael complied, pumping into Trevor's tight grip as he let himself go. Nothing would ever come close to describing the sensation. For Trevor, it was beyond hope, to feel Michael in that one quick flash of ecstasy, to be united physically with him through their love and loyalty, to experience him tighten, rhythmically constricting to the beat of their enflamed hearts. Trevor couldn't help himself. He bit at the back of Michael's neck and tugged the skin like a lion on his mate, coaxing his own release savagely. When the white that had seized his vision ebbed, he collapsed atop Michael, his limbs going limp and lifeless. Everything was still.

Eventually, Michael shifted and pushed Trevor to the opposite side of the bed. He sat up and rubbed at the back of his neck.

"Fuckin' A, you animal…" he said.

Trevor hummed his approval, his arms draping his eyes.

Michael rose to his feet. "I need a cigarette." He turned for the bathroom to retrieve his clothes.

Trevor lifted his arm. "What about the bag you brought?"

"Oh, shit, I almost forgot about!"

Rather than don his discarded outfit, Michael went to the door to retrieve the abandoned brown bag from off the motel carpet. As he leaned down, his reddened rear showed the results of their joining, a liquid testament that glistened as it trickled down his pale thighs. The sight made Trevor bite at his lip, but the brown bag was placed on the nightstand within his reach and he was quick to snatch it, deflecting his obvious arousal so as to not appear needy. He smirked.

"_Ooh_, what's in here, Mikey boy? This where you keep your rabbit? Bet it's hefty, even for you."

Michael didn't make a move to recover the lost items. Instead, he watched with his head tilted as Trevor rummaged, pulling out a few girly mags, two packs of Redwood cigarettes, a VHS copy of Casablanca, a box of hot cocoa, a bottle of whiskey, a melted pint of Ben and Jerry's, and some unscented tea-light candles.

Trevor glanced up with a leer. "Oh, Michael, candles? You sad cliché."

"That ain't everything," Michael replied.

Trevor scoffed and held the bag open. Tucked in the corner was a rose. He took it out, the ridicule dying on his lips as he stared.

Michael cleared his throat. "It ain't real."

The look in Trevor's eyes was uncharacteristically dreamy.

"It's fake," Michael said. "The stem is plastic. And the petals are feathers or somethin'."

Trevor smiled. "No shit, M."

A pack of Redwood cigarettes slapped against Michael's palm as he snorted. Taking one to his lips, he lit the end and inhaled, his demeanor suddenly changing.

Trevor's gaze turned wistful. "I'm your gas station rose, huh?"

"It ain't violins" Michael started, exhaling, "and it certainly ain't a fat guy singing about stars in our eyes, but it's the best I got."

"Oh, Mikey, that's alright," Trevor said. "_You_ can be the fat guy."

Michael didn't reply, but let the faintest smile tug at the corners of his lips as he held his middle finger in the air. He grabbed the pint of ice cream and peeled off the top, scooping up a sopping bite full with a plastic spoon before handing it to Trevor.

They both shared the container, swapping back and forth with the same spoon while propped on their elbows at the edge of the bed, watching Casablanca on the old VHS tape player. It seemed they were kids again, twenty-something year olds with nothing but each other and nowhere to go. Trevor felt the innocence of the memory with a sharp pang—it was before their friendship was tainted with his wasted love. But the anguish went away when Michael offered him a spoonful of vanilla ice cream. He opened his mouth, leaning in, but Michael playfully pulled back. Trevor grinned. Michael did it again, drawing him in with the spoon then jerking it away when he went to receive it. The third time, he leaned in close, and Michael swooped in quick to capture his mouth in a kiss. Their tongues collided and Michael let the spoon drop to take Trevor's face firmly in both hands. Trevor went weak.

Michael Townley was a fantastic kisser. All too soon, though, he pulled away.

"Hold on," he said with a quirky half-grin. He went to take the tea-light candles and scattered them on both nightstands and atop the television set, lighting them with a Zippo he found in his crumpled pants back pocket. He shut off the lamp and they were both awash in a flickering, ochre glow, the shadows playing across the slopes and curves of their naked bodies like small waves on the surface of a still pond. Trevor inwardly gulped at the sight. This was to be their last night, and damn if Michael didn't embody the ever handsome, suave, athletic jock he always was and would be.

He came back towards the bed, the height of his stomach even with Trevor's face, his erection apparent and insistent as it brushed the stubble of Trevor's jaw.

Trevor gazed up to meet the eyes of this man, the man he had spent the last decade glorifying, the great Michael Townley, his brother, his friend, his only intimate lover.

Gracing him with a downward glance, Michael quirked his head and smiled. "You never did show me just how slutty you can be…"

Wordless, Trevor opened his mouth.

* * *

Awaking next to Michael the following morning was one of the most beautiful things Trevor had ever experienced. Turning, he saw Michael snuggled against him, arms encasing his torso, head tucked against his shoulder. When he shifted, the arms around him clenched as if to keep him. He rested his head once more and closed his eyes, appreciating the now, evoking the imagery of the previous night in his mind as if it were a scene from a movie. The way Michael had charmed him throughout their extensive lovemaking, the way their secret adoration came in lingering, repetitive moans, the way Michael broke inside him, fast, slow, rough, tender, possessive, cruel, and the way it came to an end, the final rapture; it was enough to make him weep for days.

It was enough to make him question his reality. In truth, he wasn't even sure he was _real_. He'd been so in the midst of his own pleasure, so completely enthralled within the folds of its beautiful, that he was barely a person, but an insignificant insect, a fucking _flea_, caught within the tangle of webs that were Michael's lies. But the feeling was there. _That_ had to be real. It sweet-talked him, cajoled him, whispering delicate, honeyed words in his ear; _let me have you, _all_ of you_.

What? Was he gonna' say _no_? He wasn't fucking inhuman.

_Give yourself to me, let me have you, let me own you._

Yes. Yes, Michael, yes. Without a _moment's_ hesitation.

How could he not? It was Mikey who asked this of him. _His_ Mikey.

But it went against the fucking point. And now he was stained even worse than before. He inwardly swore at his own damnable sense of loyalty and foolishness, breathing low, still enclosed in Michael's strong arms while he waited for the inevitable parting to come.

But it didn't, strangely.

Michael woke, and rather than draw away as if repulsed—as he had so often done in the past—he stayed, cuddling and making small talk as if everything were normal between them. This was deceiving. Trevor did his best to remember it was all a lie, that the game would end and that their peculiar little romance would vanish without a trace… but it didn't. Not yet, at least. Who cared? He would take it as long as it was there.

They each showered, though Trevor put up an initial resistance. What would _he_ get out of it? Fresh smelling skin and hair that billowed like Fabio's? Pft, fuck _that_. But Michael enticed him, saying if he brushed his teeth and combed his hair like a good boy he might earn a treat. The promise of something pleasant got the better of him and he wound up the receiving half of a thorough probing to which he did not refuse.

When they were both cleaned and dressed Michael asked, "You wanna' hit up somewhere for breakfast, bud?"

Trevor smirked. "After my rigorous Townley workouts? I did more squats on your dick than I've ever done in my entire life, and brother, I tell you—that shit works up quite an appetite. I am fuckin' _famished_."

"Let's go somewhere with booze," Michael said, chuckling.

"_That_ is the statement of the year, pal. I want my Mary so bloody it could pass for heavy flow."

Michael grimaced and laughed. "Amen to that, babe."

They left the motel shortly thereafter, Trevor's defeated heart trembling as they strolled to Michael's car through the winter cold, their fingers enmeshed.

* * *

The diner was a half hour ride. When they got there, Trevor went to a bar stool, but Michael insisted on a booth. They sat across from one another, their menus in front of them, the patron's early morning clamor jovial in their ears. Trevor didn't see his drink of choice so—inspired by his mood—he ordered a mimosa. Michael, in a noticeably peculiar mood himself, did the same, but in addition requested a cup of coffee, cream and sugar—another peculiarity. Once their drinks arrived, Trevor brought the spotted, dish-stained glass to his lips, tasting the sweet and effervescent liquid with glee. Right then it felt as if Michael could actually be his.

Their food came next, a western omelet for Michael, blueberry pancakes for Trevor. His mimosa was gone, so he ordered another along with a side of green tea. While they ate and talked, an attractive woman strolled by their booth, gaining an indifferent glance from Trevor, but Michael's soft eyes were drawn from his food to stare at her curvaceous rear the entire time it took for her to reclaim her seat. The conversation he and Michael had been engaged in ceased as Michael deliberately inspected the length of her body. And just like that, the picturesque scene between them became a hideous reality. It was fake. All of it.

And his guard went up. He felt so stupid and insecure.

Never had he felt that kind of anxiety around a woman—save for his beautiful mother. After she passed while imprisoned it was a spiraling, downhill battle; the wary feelings harbored towards the opposite sex (a subject he was far more inclined to speak sincerely about when he was older than when he was a timid, young boy desperately trying to be whatever it was his mama wanted).

But those tedious emotions, the ones unknown in his thirties, boiled inside him, blossoming in his belly since he was five. He couldn't blame Michael. That lady was hot. He wanted her, and yet… he wanted to _be_ her too.

_Fucking flea circus, man_.

Michael turned his attention back to his food. Trevor became tight-lipped and went silent as he carefully stared at his plate, pushing a single blueberry along the scratched porcelain, the diner racket fading into a single, high-pitched drone in his ear. Michael chattered as if nothing had happened between them, but the more Trevor mulled, the more he realized he was the idiot. He toughened up as he continued to eat, becoming distant, feeding his hate to that angry, callused shell he would develop and perfect in his late thirties.

Michael continued to babble, yet he saw the change and reached across the table to cover Trevor's hand, caressing affectionately with his thumb. Trevor looked up.

"You want a bite… baby?" Michael asked. He held up a forkful of omelet.

And Trevor crumbled. Nothing could have been more detrimental to his defenses than this; his walls came crashing down by the sentiment in Michael's voice, by the kindness and caring in the gesture. He took the utensil in his mouth languorously, his lips smiling around the tines, and instantly forgot what it was like to hate.

After, when their stomachs were filled, Michael suggested they shoot the shit for a while before having to split for the remainder of the month. Trevor consented regardless of knowing their separation would crush him. He just didn't care. He was a kid, youthful in his hopes, clinging to every minute, every _second_, and willing it eternal. They drove and parked in a snowy field, and Michael popped the trunk of his car to retrieve an old, worn football, letting the radio blare from the windows. Trevor, having only progressed in hockey as a sport, fumbled to snag the ball most of the time, but he whipped it back at Michael regardless of how stupid he looked, making Michael laugh.

"Not bad," Michael called over the short distance between them. "But I want you to stand more at an angle from me—say ninety degrees. And I want you to hold the ball with your last two fingers crossing the laces; your index should be over the seam. Don't palm the ball either, grip it lightly. Great. Just like that."

Trevor rolled his eyes. "I'll palm _your_ ball…" he muttered under his breath.

"Now I want you ta' hold the ball near your ear and steady it with your other hand. Right. This makes it so you can throw it quick at any time. Good. Wind it back. Are you listening to me, T? Yep, like that. Now throw in a circular motion, but half-way through let the ball roll right off your fingertips towards me."

"Shut up, Michael," Trevor said. He threw the ball with all his might.

Michael caught it gracefully. "Perfect! Damn well better than the last few, at least. Some more practice and I'll make you an American quarterback yet." He tossed the ball, languid and comfortable in his movements.

"Fuck you and your transparent sarcasm, _Townley_," Trevor replied. "For your information I _am_ American. Just because I was born north of the border don't mean I ain't got citizenship, you _dick_."

"Ooooh, okay, tiger. I guess I'll have to remember that when you say words like '_sir-up_' and '_proh-gress_'."

"Fuck you, Michael, you fucking asshole!"

The ball sped towards Michael's face, aimed to hit his nose, but he caught it without difficulty and let out a loud guffaw.

"God, you're so easily riled. Ah, I love it." He wound up.

"Yeah and you _coo_ when you come," Trevor yelled back.

Michael faltered and threw the ball more sloppily than Trevor had in all his attempts. He glared, clearing his throat. Trevor tossed the ball back with a smirk. When it was Michael's turn to throw again, he wound the ball back with a serious sneer.

"Go long, you fuckin' white trash, ass-licking, canuck."

He hurled the ball upwards, high beyond the thickest branches of the neighboring trees, beyond the pallid light of the mid-day sun, but Trevor was nowhere near the place it would descend. Instead, Trevor was sprinting like a fiend towards Michael, his fists balled and ready. He was a freight train, the placement of his shoulder in position for a frontal body check, but Michael anticipated the action and stepped into the encounter with the full force of a trained quarterback. The collision left Michael off balance, but without the added speed of skates—and the disadvantage in weight—Trevor went sprawling to the ground, dirt and snow kicking up from his heels. The impact jarred him and he gasped. Michael peered at him with a hostile frown.

"Gotta' start controlling that _temper_, sweethea—_oomph_!"

There was a break, slight, intermittent really, and Michael doubled back, his hands clutching at his crotch through his jeans, desperately attempting to reclaim the air that had been forced out of his lungs by way of Trevor's boot. Ever triumphant, Trevor barked and rolled to his feet, but the delight that had captured his features was nothing in comparison to Michael's rage. He was on the ground again in seconds.

"Argh, _fuck_!" he screamed. "Get your greedy hands—"

He could no longer speak; Michael's fist prevented him from ending his exclamation. He tried to blink. Another blow. Unsure of where he was. Another. Dizzy and fading.

"Fucking asshole…" Michael hissed, but Trevor couldn't understand. He was in a daze. His lips felt covered in something warm despite the cold, and he raised his hand to wipe at the sticky substance seeping from his nostrils. Pain. A groan twisted its way from deep within his throat and he realized he was hurt.

"Shit…" Michael said.

Over the breeze, the distant croon of a song bled as if slashed from the singer's wrists, floating like a somber ghost from the nearby car's stereo to his ears. His belt buckle loosened.

"No, Michael, wait…" he said in protest; a croak if ever there was one.

But it happened anyway, and everything was white as his eyes shot open and his neck arched like the ends of a taut bow, the result of which drove the back of his head into the ground. A song portrayed faith, a baffled king, broken and cold, the brilliance of the solo piano and in the lilt in the singers words to praise the lord, then it began to snow, flakes all around them, stippling Michael's raven hair, the excess atop their mother earth in pure clumps. The front and peripherals of Trevor's vision were enclosed. He felt as if he were being stabbed, but he wrapped his arms around Michael's shoulders, yielding to the sensations that made him want to scream as he let himself be torn.

"Michael," he said through his teeth, "take me." His face twisted. "Oh my god, it hurts!"

Another thirty seconds and Michael was finished.

Afterward, Trevor remained gazing up at the sky, his eyes drawn to Michael when they were at last parted. There was fear etched in Michael's brows at what he'd just done, but nothing of regret or guilt. Not a word was spoken between them, but as the melody from the radio persisted, Michael let his hand drop beyond Trevor's thighs to invade him once more. Trevor hissed at the new pain. Then, without a single utterance, there were two fingers before his chapped lips. He did not pause; he took them into his mouth up to the knuckles, the metallic taste of his own blood and the salty flavor of Michael's ejaculate both bizarre and incredible on his tongue.

Following this, Michael went to stand, but Trevor sat upright and gripped his jacket so fiercely he froze. Like a living mirror, Trevor shoved the same digits between his thighs in the manner as Michael had, his face screwing up but the expression astoundingly firm. As expected, Michael hesitated, his upper lip contorting with restrained disgust at the offending, bloodied fingers, but in the end taking them past his lips to suck until they were cleaned. Trevor watched the act, mesmerized. He yanked Michael into a passionate kiss.

They broke away—more Michael than he—but Trevor was all calm introspection. He beamed, pinching Michael's cheeks, and said in a childish voice, "And you were worried about AIDS, Mikey."

"Shut up," Michael replied, standing.

"Dirty Mikey…" Trevor said. His tongue slipped from his mouth, serpentine. "Dirty, seedy, Mikey."

"Will you shut the fuck up and get off your nasty ass?"

"You made it nasty. It's nasty because of you."

"I'm pretty sure your ass was always nasty, Trevor."

Trevor looked thoughtful. "I'll give you that."

With the help of Michael's grip, Trevor righted himself, zipping his pants while the snow thickened, swirling. Michael's hair was awash in white, and suddenly, as clear as the sun from above, Trevor saw it. He actually _saw_ it.

The light.

The rich, powerful, beautiful light. It emanated off Michael like the glow from a star, and at its radiance Trevor's mouth dropped and his knees started to give. Michael turned to look at him, the letter 'T' forming on his lips in question, but Trevor was so stunned he couldn't hear.

"Trev—"

Lissome arms encompassed Michael, startling him into speechlessness. The song continued to play into its final lines and the two men swayed to the slow cadence, the concluding, single-word chorus a repeated string of mournful syllables, gaining strength but inevitably dying on the singer's lips.

"Mikey," Trevor said in a whisper into Michael's shoulder, "Mikey… don't go."

He felt Michael's arms encircle him in response. "I'm not going anywhere," Michael replied.

"We can _be_ like this. Fuck everyone. Run. Escape with me."

"You know we can't."

"_Yes, we_ _can_!" Trevor squeezed. "We can, we can!" He bit at his lip, the truth gnawing him, and though he knew deep down right from wrong, he still couldn't accept it. "Fuck, I _know_ we can't…" His eyes were clenched shut, tears lining his lashes. "It shoulda' been mine… our life… _they_ shoulda' been mine…"

A sharp inhalation. Michael shifted, but Trevor couldn't let go.

"The life we coulda' had, Michael… please… don't wanna' be alone… don't leave me… don't go back to her."

For a moment, Michael didn't move. Then, all of a sudden, he jerked, realization showing in his wide green eyes.

"Shit!" he said. "My ring! I-I forgot my ring!"

He tore from Trevor's grasp and hurried through the snow to his car. When he was there he turned. Trevor remained amid the flurries.

"Come on, T!" Michael called. "We gotta' get back to that motel!"

Blank as the snow, Trevor's face was expressionless. He stood so still it were as if he'd turned to ice, and he the sculpture, the one with the empty eyes and the wan skin, dark hallows and sickly features, rose a single brow in response to Michael's summons. Michael waited, gesturing for him to hasten his step. He blinked and was unexpectedly running to Michael's side. They got into the car and sped off.

#

In the days to come it was clear he was doomed. Anguish threatened to choke him in his sleep, and he woke with a sour tang in his mouth. Everything was in place. He was ready.

But in the hours before the heist in Ludendorff was scheduled to commence, he visited the lone church on Cavalry Boulevard, noting with a tinge of fear how suffocating the vast stone walls and the stained glass windows were. This clutching trepidation in him had not changed; he feared the wrath of God just as much as he had when he was a young child, only now he was very, very damned, so he didn't give a shit. Yet… stepping inside a house of God, a place reserved for the good and the blessed, well… it was like being a devil among doves.

Mass was not until seven that evening. Unfortunate was this, given his time constraints. He dropped his crowbar on the floor of the vestibule and shoved his gloved hands into his pockets as he deliberately ignored the stone basin full of holy water, then strode through the nave along the central isle towards the altar. The ominous nature of the lofty ceiling gave him chills. Once he got to the head of the building, he awkwardly rubbed at his mustache and ascended the steps to the altar.

Below the cross hanging overhead, he removed the glove of his right hand and climbed the elegant wooden construct behind the altar, careful not to bump any religious figurines or candelabras. When his boots were situated, he stood tall and pursed his lips to his fingers, reaching high to touch the bleeding feet of Jesus.

After that he scrambled down, his fear heightening at what he'd just done.

He left the church in a rush, grabbing his crowbar and closing the door with an inaudible 'sorry' fighting to break free from his throat.

* * *

"Trevor!"

It was a Sunday. He sat on the porch of his rusted, broken down trailer in Sandy Shores, snoring softly with a bottle of Piswasser Pils and a loaded rifle held lightly in each of his limp hands. Booze, meth, gasoline, and jerking off had gotten the better of him. They summed up the last four months of his life. Recently he'd been in a rut, but TP Industries would take off any day now, spread its glorious wings and sore. He just needed some inspiration to get motivated again.

"Trevor!"

The call pierced the quiet of his slumber, and suddenly he jolted forward, shooting off the discolored couch on his porch to confront the imbecile who had awoken him.

"Trevor!"

"GODDAMNIT RON, WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT WAKING MEN WITH EXPLOSIZE ANGER ISSUES?! DO I NEED TO DEMONSTRATE THE KISSING AGAIN?!"

"I-I-I'm sorry, T!"

Trevor chucked the Piswasser beer bottle at Ron's head, missing the man by an inch. "You're _lucky_ I just woke up, otherwise it wouldn't be that bottle hitting your head but this rifle handle deep in your ASS!"

Ron shied. "S-Sorry, T, I-I didn't mean—"

"Shut up and make me my coffee or I'll dislocate your limbs from your torso!"

"Yes, of course, of course, but Trev—"

"Ronald, so help me _God_, if I have to take you over my knee—"

"But, T, it's snowing!"

Trevor stopped, silenced. He stuck his head out from below the porch and peered up at the sky. White flakes floated amid the atmosphere, drifting downward. One fell on his nose and he looked at it, going cross eyed in the process.

"_Bullshit_," he said, wiping it off. "It's more likely to be ash from a nearby volcano than snow."

"No, T, it is!" Ron replied, excited. "I checked—it's been all over the radios. It's snowing, I tell ya'. Snow in Sandy Shores! Can you believe it?"

Trevor paused. "Huh," he said. He raised his hand and let the drifts fall to his palm. "Well… I'll be damned. It's a fuckin' miracle." He looked at Ron, a sincere expression on his face. "Hey, you know what else is a miracle, Ron?"

Ron shook his head.

"THE FACT THAT YOU'RE STILL BREATHING WHEN YOU HAVEN'T GOTTEN MY FUCKING COFFEE!"

Ron began to run. "I-I-I'm going, Trevor, I'm going!"

Trevor snorted and placed a crooked cigarette in his mouth while he watched the other man scurry. He lit the end, tired and sad. The snow continued to fall and Trevor frowned.

"Yeah, it's a fuckin' miracle, alright. Hallelujah, Ron. Fucking Hallelujah."


End file.
